let sleeping dogs lie

you can't forget, ignore all the problems in your life - eventually the dogs will come scratching at your door with you having no way of stopping them.

Zooey is named after a book that he hates. He is thin and lanky, twice as tall as his dad he rarely sees, with hair that is permanently tangled no matter how many times you comb it through. he has dark liquid eyes: cut like orange slices, only not as sweet; like dark, crunchy chestnuts in the shape of almonds only not as warm; like a Siamese Cat only he's more of a dog kind of guy.

his house doesn't feel like a house at all it's more of a art gallery, white walled and stone quiet boundless space in-between that says do not touch anything. his room doesn’t belong to a teenage boy it belongs to an adult a lawyer, a doctor, a priest neat and clean and pressed like Sunday's best clothes only with no wrinkle, no stain, no blemish to iron in the first place.

but the thing that stands out the most are the dogs the endless hordes of them swarming the glass doors outside like bees, only louder. the thousands of them that pile into the room when he opens the door barking, yelping, clawing over the pants of his uniform, like children begging a parent for another turn another ride another hug.

we exchange cards of blank stares and dumbfounded silence, still and steadfast like rusted tin. but oil squeaks into me: are these yours? and movement creeps onto him: a muffled sob above the yelps and bays i don't know what to do. I used to let them be Maybe they would disappear If I just let the sleeping ones lie Maybe it’d all just go away I don’t know what to do anymore. they just keep on coming and coming and I can't stop them.

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